


middle distance runner

by zeldalookslonely



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Charles Boyle's canonically huge dick, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sex, Some angst, Undercover, Undercover Missions, Undercover as Married, nobody is great at communicating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28998933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldalookslonely/pseuds/zeldalookslonely
Summary: Charles and Jake go undercover as a married couple.  Emotions are had.
Relationships: Charles Boyle/Jake Peralta
Comments: 9
Kudos: 64
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	middle distance runner

**Author's Note:**

> For the impossibly patient Impossibly_Izzy!! <3 <3
> 
> The title is pulled from a song of the same name by Sea Wolf.
> 
> Please suspend your disbelief on all police and pastry shop related matters.

Here’s the thing: Charles takes what he can get, and he’s okay with that. Sometimes life gives you lemons, and you have to make lemonade. Sometimes life gives you rotten lemons and you have to watch the lemons walk away with your life savings and your only chance at a family.

Sometimes Charles imagines he’s a person made up of paper cuts, and the paper cuts look like _maybe if you were more handsome, maybe if you were less needy, maybe if you were worthy, maybe then I could love you_. Sometimes the paper cuts look like the roast chicken and potatoes he leaves on his ex-wife’s new fiance’s dining table as an offering, as a question, _do you see me now_? Do you see me? Can you look at me now? If you can look at me, I’ll take it. _I’ll take what I can get_.

…

It’s cramped in the maintenance closet. Charles is dizzy from the smell of a nearby bleach spill, but he’s still able to note with amusement that Jake’s hair is frizzing from the humidity. In fact, everyone looks a little worse for wear -- Amy and Terry are dripping with sweat, and Rosa has -- well, Rosa has a tiny smudge marring her perfect eyeliner, which is an unusually visible sign of her current state of mind. Only Captain Holt is his normal, implacable self.

“We’re going to have to run an undercover operation,” announces the Captain.

“Sir,” says Terry, “is there a reason we can’t talk about this in your office? Your comfortable, spacious office?”

“We can’t _trust_ my office for this,” says Holt. “My _office_ has been compromised before.”

“Cool,” Jake says. “Cool, cool, cool. I’m going undercover again! Is it in a music studio this time? Please tell me it’s in a music studio this time.”

“It is not in a music studio this time,” Holt says.

Jake sighs. “Okay, well, where am I infiltrating?”

“Nowhere,” Holt says. “This crime ring requires a… different expertise.”

“I’m sure I can handle--”

“Charles Boyle will be going undercover,” Holt says firmly.

“Huh?” Charles asks, jolting back into full awareness. The fumes in here are powerful.

“A ring of powerful chefs have been using their respective restaurants to smuggle cocaine into the city. You’ll be going undercover as a pastry chef.”

“Pastry…what?” Charles looks for a place to sit. There is, of course, no place to sit.

“Chefs,” Jake mutters. “Of course it had to be chefs.”

Holt gestures to Charles. “Detective Boyle, you will have to choose a second detective to go under with you as your spouse. Your spouse will act as the owner and manager of your pastry shop. This level of control will make you an attractive criminal prospect and ensure your acceptance into the ring.”

“Rosa,” Charles says immediately. She’s promised to teach him how to use her throwing stars. They could practice in their downtime.

“Over my dead body,” Rosa says.

“Oh, come on! We could--”

“Charles! Over. My. Dead. Body.”

“Fine,” huffs Charles. “Ames? Any interest?”

Amy looks even dizzier than Charles. “Well…”

“What about me?” Jake cuts in. “I would make a great spouse! Do you not think--?”

Charles takes a deep breath, which makes his whole bleach inhalation situation even worse. They’ve got to get out of here. “Yeah. Okay. I choose Jake. Can we discuss the details later?”

The Captain nods and the whole squad rushes for the door; Charles makes a beeline for the roof. He needs fresh air. He needs _space_ , but he doesn’t _get_ space, because Jake is trailing behind him, _looking_ at him, looking at him in that particular _Jake_ way where his eyes are low embers but his voice is high and faux-casual.

“Undercover, huh?” Jake says, one hand fluttering high before landing in a tight grip on the rail.

Charles sucks in a breath. Holds the fresh air in his lungs. Cleansing. He sighs. “Yep. Undercover.”

“Are you still into Rosa?” Jake bursts out, fist clenched but eyes glued skyward.

“What?”

“Rosa. Not that she’s not, you know, amazing, but Holt said spouse and you jumped right to-- so I thought-- and then Amy was your second choice. So I was wondering if--?”

“Rosa and I are friends, Jake,” Charles says.

“Right, right. Yep. I just thought-- well. I couldn’t help but think--”

“Jake,” Charles says earnestly, because now, with a clear head, he’s starting to see the shape of things. He puts hands on Jake’s arms, makes Jake look at him. “You’re right. _You’re right_. I get it. I know how much you wanted to be undercover, and you’re the one with experience. You should have been my first choice.”

Jake’s face does something complicated, smile twisting between sharp and dull until he laughs, says, “Yep! Yep. We’re partners, after all.”

“Just call us the Pastry Boys!” 

Jake groans. “I refuse to be a Pastry Boy.”

“Pastry Husbands,” Charles suggests with a smile, and Jake goes very still.

“Yep,” he says. “Pastry Husbands it is.”

…

Sometimes Charles gets the idea that he’s not his own; he doesn’t belong to himself. He’s one tiny unremarkable cog, alive only in the context of a much larger whole, useless and inconsequential on his own. And it never bothered him much, honest, _honest_ , because he _is_ important to the whole of the picture; the puzzle is incomplete without him; the Boyle family photos would be lopsided -- set askew. 

_But_. 

But maybe, he’d like to be a more vibrant piece of the puzzle. Something more than plain blue in a wide blue sky, someone more than everyone’s most forgettable cousin, someone whose name is remembered. Someone who advances at work based on skill and talent, not because Captain Holt knows he likes to cook. Someone who receives marriage proposals instead of propositions to join his advantageous undercover work assignment.

…

Jeremiah Smith is a tight-lipped, grouchy baker with a heart of gold. That heart of gold inspires Jeremiah to donate his day old bread to homeless shelters, but doesn’t stop him from taking advantage of any lucrative business opportunities that might come his way. 

“Maybe it’s a heart of silver,” Charles suggests, downing his beer a little too quickly, pulling his legs up onto Jake’s sofa.

“Yeah,” Jake says, “that dirty silver, what’s it called?”

“Tarnished.”

“Tarnished! Yes! And Clinton Jones Smith, he of three last names, is an unscrupulous, spoiled trust-fund business-man-baby whose only weakness is his love for his husband, Jeremiah.”

“Sounds like a character from a bad romance novel, Jakey.”

“Yep!” Jake says, then, as if making a confession, “I’ve never been married before.”

“Yeah,” Charles says. “I know. I know.”

Jake shimmies a little closer. “What’s it like?”

Charles can’t bring himself to speak for a few long moments. He clears his throat. “I wouldn’t know, would I? You won’t be married to me. I’m not really Jeremiah Smith.”

“Well, what’s it like being married to Charles Boyle, then?”

It’s like taking in an affectionate kitten and slowly realizing you hate affection and kittens and fish balls and uniforms and work hours and earnestness and inadvertent double entendres. It’s a year of moderate contentedness that ramps up into an active volcano of betrayal and liquid hot resentment.

“It’s amazing, obviously,” Charles says, grinning.

Jake laughs. “I knew it!” He moves even closer, close enough to touch, if Charles reached out. If Charles could reach out. “Listen,” says Jake. “Captain Holt gave me some advice about… marriage. And, uh, undercover. Undercover marriage.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He said it’s a good idea to practice the ‘subtle intimacies of a convincing relationship.’”

Charles blinks. “What?”

“You know. To be able to pull one over on everyone. Hugging. Kissing. Casual touching. All that stuff.”

Jake is studying him with wide, sincere eyes; Charles is torn between tumbling recklessly forward and leaning away. He leans away. “I think you’re overthinking this. We’re already comfortable with each other, aren’t we?”

Jake heaves a put-upon sigh and shifts toward Charles. Wraps an arm around his shoulders and relaxes as if he can’t hear the thunderous beating of Charles’s heart. “Okay?"

Charles wants to laugh. As if he’d ever say it wasn’t okay, as if it could ever be okay. But this is Jake, and this is _the job:_ this is his best friend in the world and his work. These are the best things he has, the best things about him. Charles pushes forward, brushes his nose against Jake’s. Presses his lips to Jake’s cheek and breathes in, out. In and out. Drops another kiss just above Jake’s eyebrow and one more to his temple, then backs a hairsbreadth away. “Okay?”

Jake is a little pink in the cheeks, but he looks pleased; the corners of his mouth are turned up in a tiny smile. “Yeah. It’s good. You’re good. Very convincing.”

“Convincing,” Charles echoes, leaning back into Jake’s arm. _Very convincing_.

…

Being undercover is more luxurious than Charles had anticipated. Their new apartment is a Property Brother dream: open concept, marble counters, sleek furniture, and more throw pillows than could possibly be necessary.

“We’re in the wrong business,” Jake says

“Yeah,” Charles says sardonically, “why bother with the Academy when we could have been drug dealing restaurateurs from the start?”

Jake barks a laugh and drops his suitcase to the floor with a _thud_. He grabs Charles’s hand with one of his own and it’s only then that Charles realizes he’s shaking, trembling. “Charles,” Jake says gently, but Charles can’t hear it, not right now. He yanks his hand away.

“Let’s look around,” he says, and marches into what turns out the be the _second_ bedroom. It’s nearly the size of his entire apartment.

“Woah,” Jake says, pulling Charles into the master bedroom. “We have a sitting area!”

“And a balcony.”

“With a view! Of a tree!” Jake kicks off his shoes and crawls into the huge bed. “ _Oh_ , okay. This mattress is… magic.”

Charles sits on the edge of the bed and breathes, in and out. In and out. Jake reaches to take his hand. He presses a kiss to the inside of Charles’s wrist. Practicing. _Practicing_.

“You’re gonna be awesome, you know,” Jake says lightly. “You’re awesome.”

“Maybe, since you’re here,” Charles says, and he _means it_ so he manages a smile. Even manages to regulate his heart rate a bit. Manages to calm himself down. He glances down at Jake with a real grin, but Jake is frowning up at him.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says.

Charles shrugs; he’s not quite ready to have a real conversation so he says, jovially -- too jovially -- “Are you ready to work, Mr. Smith?”

Jake hesitates before smiling. “I’m ready, Mr. Smith.”

…

Jerry and Clint Smith work well together. Clint mans the front register and takes care of the books while Jerry rules the kitchen, baking from three in the morning til opening, sleepy eyed and smiley. Clint manages to be charming as well as obviously sordid: a well-liked but disreputable gentleman.

“You seem like a lovely couple,” an elderly woman says gravely to Jerry, tucking a loaf of rye bread into her shopping bag.

“Oh, I’m very lucky,” says Jerry. “Very lucky.”

…

The truth is that Jake did not choose the wrong business: he is eminently terrible at running a shop, and that’s considering the fact that this shop is destined to be a fake drug front.

“Have you ever even balanced a checkbook?” Charles asks, lounging over their sofa during one of their rare days at “home.”

Jake makes some kind of evasive, high-pitched noise and shoves a file folder across the cushion. “I’ve done one better than balancing a stupid checkbook! I found our way in.”

“I recognize him!” Charles exclaims, leafing through the file. “He’s been in every day this week. Cranberry muffin with walnuts.”

“Yep, and I’ve been working him. Clint is a _real_ sleazeball. I’ve given him a Bernie Madoff meets Dracula meets Gina when she’s hangry kind of a vibe, and it must be working because guess who wants to meet with us?”

“You’re right,” Charles says, and grins when Jake raises an eyebrow at him in question. “This is much better than balancing a checkbook.”

Jake laughs and pours himself, then Charles, a glass of wine. “I should probably, you know. Figure out the checkbook thing too.”

“Nope! You’re perfect.”

“Charles--”

“You’re _perfect_ , I promise. You’re chili and chocolate. You’re a goat milk latte. You’re Patti Lupone, on stage and yelling at the audience for using cell phones. You’re the best, Jake. You’re the _best_.”

Charles is deliberate and sincere, but Jake’s face looks as if Charles has levied out insults instead of compliments.

“Why do you…” Jake pauses. “I’m not perfect. You know I’m… I’ve always liked when you said stuff like that, because I know you, and I know you’re… generous, but sometimes I look at you and you’re--”

“Jake,” interrupts Charles.

“No. No. Listen. I look at you and you’re crossing the line into some kind of hero worship, and I wonder if you really see me. If you really _know_ me.”

Charles can feel anger welling up, hot and quick, blooming up and out, spilling over. As if he can’t see the man lounging in front of him -- as if he doesn’t know Jake -- _Jake_ with his tired eyes and curling hair, _Jake_ in his worn out Mets t-shirt, the one his father gave him when he was a teenager, the one Jake loves and hates in equal measure.

“I know you, Jake,” Charles says coldly. “I’m a passionate person, and I won’t apologize for being enthusiastic about the people I-- the people I care about.”

Jake is still for a moment then sways abruptly forward, with his whole body, too fast; his face crashes into Charles’s and his knees must give out from under him; Charles blinks and there’s a red-faced pile of Jake in his lap.

“Jake,” Charles says, softly, as if speaking to an injured animal. “Are you okay?”

Jake pulls away with deliberate slowness, hands up -- for balance, Charles thinks, until he catches the look on Jake’s face and realizes his hands are up in surrender. “I’m sorry,” Jake says.

“Oh,” says Charles, aloud. Awed. “I see. I see.” 

“Charles--”

“C’mere,” says Charles, gently, gently, and Jake rises like a puppet on a string. He sways close again, but this time Charles takes his face in his hands and kisses him, once, twice, three times, before Jake murmurs something and opens his mouth. Slides his tongue against Charles’s, grips Charles’s shoulders like it’s something he needs. Like he never wants to let go. Like a revelation, like a gift; like Jake is opening up to him. It’s everything he didn’t know he could have. Everything he never even considered he could be allowed to want.

“I want you,” Jake says, and it hits like a splash of cold water, because it’s not ‘I love you,’ _of course_ it’s not, it couldn’t be -- this is Jake and Jake isn’t Charles. Jake doesn’t go Full Peralta, Jake doesn’t have to be in love with his best friend to want to have sex.

And Charles takes what he can get, doesn’t he? Charles knows the stakes here, knows the risks, knows he could do this and make things weird, lose his best friend. Charles knows what Eleanor’s face looked like before and after their first night together. _Quit clinging, give me space, nobody likes a hanger-on_. He should back off. He should say no, for the sake of the friendship, the sake of the job. For the sake of his own mental health.

“I want you too,” Charles says. “So much, Jake. So much.”

Jake slides his hands under Charles’s shirt. “Is this happening? Oh my god, this is happening.”

“This is most definitely happening,” Charles says with a cockiness he knows Jake will like -- a cockiness that’s not faked, mostly, because if Charles Boyle knows how to do anything, it’s how to bring pleasure to a lover. “You are gorgeous, look at you. _Look at you_.” And oh, Jake already looks affected, squirming to lie down on the sofa, eyes dilated, trembling fingers unbuttoning Charles’s shirt.

“I wanna see you,” Jake mumbles. “Let me see you.”

Charles strips out of his shirt and drags Jake’s t-shirt over his head. Quick. Efficient. He dips his head to put his mouth to Jake’s chest, to his neck, to kiss a jagged line up to to his ear. “What do you want, Jake? Anything. I’ll give you anything, everything.”

“Teeth-- could you? Please.”

Please. _Please_. “As if you’d ever have to beg,” Charles says, sighing out into Jake’s ear before dragging his teeth over his earlobe. Biting kisses into his neck, listening to Jake moan and sigh.

Jake grinds his hips upward and now Charles is the one moaning, moaning into Jake’s neck. “Jake,” he says.

“Will you fuck me?” Jake asks, ragged, voice like gravel.

And Charles can see how much Jake wants this, how much he likes this: the ability to ask for what he wants and have his requests granted without hesitation. He can see how much Jake wants to be taken care of, to be praised. Still, Charles hesitates.

“We don’t have to,” Jake says quietly. 

“No, I want to, _of course_ I want to,” Charles says, sitting up on his knees. Hovering over Jake and mourning the new distance between them. “It’s… it can be a lot to take.”

“What do you mean?” Jake asks, then says, “No, wait. Lets move to the bedroom first. I want to-- I need to see you in bed.” 

“Yes, of course, yes,” Charles says, following behind but he can’t stop smiling because Jake is holding his hand, dragging him along. Holding his hand, maintaining the connection. Because there _is_ a connection -- there’s something here, and even if it’s not quite what Charles would wish for, it’s enough. Charles can make it enough.

“Okay,” Jake says, tipping Charles back onto the bed, still hand in hand. He crawls over Charles until he’s straddling his waist, looking down at him. “Tell me. What’s too much to take?”

Charles takes a breath and drags Jake’s hand down his body, slow, until Jake is palming his still-erect cock through his trousers. He bites back a moan, tries to speak. “It’s..”

“Oh,” Jake says. “Oh. You are…”

“Larger than average,” Charles says, gasping when Jake grinds down with his palm. “Jake.”

“Fuck,” says Jake, throat clicking as he swallows dryly. “You’re so hot. Fuck. Let me see you. Please.”

“Anything,” Charles says, scrabbling to shove his pants off his body, eyes on Jake’s face as his cock springs free.

“Oh my god,” Jake says. He sound _delighted_. “Oh my god. Are you… are you telling me you’ve received complaints about your dick? Because I don’t believe it. Fuck.”

Charles laughs, and isn’t that nice -- _laughing_ in bed. Having _fun_ in bed. “Not complaints, per se. Sometimes there’s surprise. Sometimes worry.”

“Well, I may be surprised but believe me, I’m not worried. And I still need you to fuck me, but _fuck_. First I want you in my mouth; let me suck your dick. _Please_.”

“Please,” Charles echoes, pulling Jake into a sloppy kiss, hands everywhere -- rubbing up and down Jake’s back, behind his neck, stroking his cheek, gripping his hip. Jake slides down Charles’s body and _nuzzles_ his cock; he’s so clearly glad to be there that something in Charles breaks down, piece by piece, and all the desperation he’s been holding back rushes to the surface. “Jake,” he gasps.

“That’s it,” Jake says, one hand on Charles’s cock and one hand shoved down his own pants, _touching himself_ , and if that isn’t the hottest thing he’s ever seen--

“Please, yes,” Charles grinds out as Jake takes as much of his cock as he can into his mouth; he’s reckless, reckless. He’s _lovely_ , and all at once Charles is overwhelmed. “Jake, I’m--”

Jake pulls off Charles’s cock quickly, probably reacting to his tone, and makes a soothing sound, low in his throat. “It’s okay, let’s-- why don’t you sit back against the headboard. Yeah. Do you still want--?”

“So much,” Charles says, and Jake grins. Kneels between Charles’s legs and takes his cock back in his mouth, this time gently, this time carefully -- almost lovingly, _almost, almost_. From this position Charles can maintain eye contact, can see the look on Jake’s face when Charles tells him he’s close; he can see what Jake looks like while bringing Charles to an orgasm so powerful it’s painful, what he looks like while Charles comes in his mouth.

“Fuck,” Jake says, pulling himself up and flinging himself forward, tucking his face into Charles’s neck and jerking himself off with rough pulls. 

Charles should slow him down, should return the blow job in kind, but he can hardly move, can hardly _think_ , so he drags his nails up Jake’s stomach, over his neck. Presses his thumb to the base of Jake’s throat and whispers, “you’re perfect, let me see you.” Jake cries out into Charles’s skin and clamps down with his teeth; it’s just on the right side of painful and it’s perfect.

Perfect. Perfect.

…

Charles wakes up alone.

Charles wakes up alone, which should not be surprising. He decides he’s glad. Glad to have a minute to regroup, to find his bearings. To shove all his inconvenient feelings back into a tiny box in a dusty corner of his mind. He knows this feeling, knows that this is it -- this is the moment he screws up, because he’s done it before: made wrong assumptions, presumed non-existent feelings, got his phone number blocked. 

This time it’ll be different. This time, he’ll be rational. He’ll acknowledge his feelings and put them away; he’ll understand that he can hold two conflicting thoughts in his head at the same time and still be okay. He can want to propose marriage to Jake the second he sees him, and he can understand that following through on that instinct will ruin his best friendship. Both of those things are true, and that’s okay.

“It’s okay,” he says aloud, because he needs to hear it. “It’s going to be okay.”

Of course, it feels less than okay when he emerges from the bedroom to find Jake in the kitchen, sipping coffee and hovering dubiously over the stove top. He’s wearing nothing but low riding basketball shorts and Charles can see a shadow of a bite mark over his left shoulder. 

_Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it_.

“Are you cooking?” he asks, eyebrows pulling way up at this second surprise of the morning.

“Charles!” Jake exclaims, stepping in front of the pan, blocking it with his entire body. “I wanted to make you breakfast, and, well. An attempt was made. No need to, you know, come any closer.”

“Scrambled eggs?” Charles guesses, judging by the mess on surrounding the sink.

“What are you, a detective?” Jake prowls closer, backs Charles up against the counter furthest from the stove and presses a firm kiss to his mouth, swallowing Charles gasp at this third surprise. “Last night was--”

“Are those eggs purple?”

Jake groans. “Yes.”

“How on earth--?”

“I honestly don’t know. I wish I did.”

Charles shakes his head, tries to clear it, but the eggs are still purple and Jake is still pressed against him from head to toe. Nothing makes sense.

“You didn’t have to make breakfast,” Charles says finally, shifting his weight from one foot to another, back and forth. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know, I know, I didn’t do it right, but--”

“That’s not what this is,” Charles says, too fast. “That’s not what we are. Breakfast.”

Jake goes still, then takes a step back. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you don’t have to make scrambled eggs, you don’t have to brew coffee, you don’t have to pretend. I don’t want you to pretend. Okay?” He hopes he sounds gentle, hopes he sounds far less panicked than he feels. He hopes Jake can see that he’s being reasonable, logical; he hopes Jake can see that he doesn’t have any expectations.

Jake turns away to guzzle his coffee all at once. “Yeah, okay. Cool. Cool. I get it.”

“Jake--” Charles says, but he’s interrupted by Jake’s phone buzzing with a text message in his pocket.

“We’ve got our meeting,” Jake says.

“Good. That’s good news.”

“Yep. It’s the whole point, isn’t it? I’m gonna. I’m gonna go get ready.” He claps Charles on the shoulder.

“Jake.”

“I’m totally fine; I’m all good. We’re good,” Jake says, seemingly preemptively, and all Charles can do is nod.

“Okay. Okay.”

…

In the end, it works out better than they could have hoped. Jake is fast tracked through Cranberry Walnut’s organization with a swiftness that surprises even Charles.

“We need a bigger fish,” Jake says one night before, as usual now, drifting off to sleep on the sofa instead of in bed with Charles. Instead of where he belongs.

It’s Jake who makes the connections, but it’s Charles who plants the tracker, who manages to find the drop zone. 

It’s _together_ that they catch the supplier, almost six weeks to the day after going under.

Jake is jubilant but distant; he keeps a careful three feet between himself and Charles from the second their mission ends.

Captain Holt congratulates them both with a solemn handshake and a knowing, sympathetic look in his eyes. Captain Holt sees too much. Captain Holt has always seen too much.

…

Charles is shockingly and strangely comforted to be back in his tiny, outdated, closed-concept apartment. He allows himself to get pleasantly tipsy on some top notch sangria, which would be wonderful if not for the knowledge that he’s drinking alone at three in the afternoon.

Don’t think about that. _Do not think about that_.

But his _one hundred percent totally successful refusal to think about it_ is interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Hang on,” Charles calls out.

“It’s Jake. Let me in?”

Charles lets him in. Did he ever have a choice? Of course he lets him in. Charles lets him in, and they stand awkwardly in his minuscule foyer, staring at each other until Jake says, “Charles.”

“Jake.”

“Can I come in? Sit down? Or… should I go?”

“Don’t _go_ ,” Charles says, highly offended, frowning.

Jake laughs. “Okay, yeah.”

Charles leads him to his sofa and pours him a glass of the sangria. “Jake, I think we should talk.”

“No shit, detective,” Jake says, not unkindly but not lightly either.

“What we did--”

“We got them,” Jake interrupts. “We took down Cranberry Walnut and everyone else. We did that.”

“We did. We went down on them. _Hard_.”

Jake drops his head into his hand, apparently torn between a bitter laugh and a groan. “That is _not_ the expression you were looking for!” 

It should feel like old times; it should bring them back to before everything got so _messy_ between them, but it doesn't, because Jake still has a tortured look on his face, and Charles is so worried about saying the wrong thing, he might as well be paralyzed. 

Jake sets his glass down and stands abruptly. He paces back and forth over the length of Charles's living room, over and over, before coming to a stop right in front of Charles. Staring down at him.

"I am... communicate," he says, and he looks so pleased with himself for managing to say the words that Charles can't bring himself to point out that it wasn't really a sentence. Jake reacts to his expression as if he'd said the words aloud, however, with a small growl of acknowledgement. "Yeah, okay. Just, will you listen? I want to... will you listen?"

"Jake. Of course I will. Anything."

"What I was trying to say, what I meant to say, is that we're a good team. And I know exactly what you're thinking -- that we were undercover, and we fooled around, and it didn't mean anything. I get that, I really do." He sighs, and clenches his hands, tight. "You're my best friend, okay? You're my very best friend, and I have to trust that you won't cut me out of your life if I make the wrong move here. I have to trust that we're gonna stay friends no matter what happens, okay? I trust you. I hope you trust me." He spreads his hands wide. Beseeching. "I know you're the brave one, and I know if you wanted something more, you probably would have said it already. I know that. But I came here because I think we could have something, together, Charles, if we both want to. I came here because I know we're a good team, and I wanted to ask you to... to see if we have something. To give this a try. With me." 

"Jake--"

"It's going to be okay, either way. I swear."

"Jake--"

"I understand--"

"Jake! Stop! I've already planned our joint funeral! For when we die together, okay? Because I want to be together, always, even when one of us inevitably does something stupid and the other one follows right into the obviously stupid situation, and we both die and we have a melancholy Nina Simone song played at our funeral. Also Bruce Willis is there."

"I love you," Jake says, because he's the brave one, no matter what he says, and there are tears in his eyes that break Charles's heart.

"I love you," Charles says, maybe not so dry-eyed himself. "I'm in love with you. I'm just... so in love with you. I'm so in love with you I don't even know what to do with myself. I didn't think you'd ever..."

"I do. I do, please," Jake says, and he lets Charles tug him down, into his lap, arms wrapped around each other. Tangled together.

"Nobody else has ever said 'I love you' first," Charles says: an embarrassing confession, but Jake deserves to know. Jake deserves bravery too.

"Good," Jake growls, almost possessively, and oh -- he's pressing against Charles, erection hard against Charles's lower stomach, mouth on Charles's mouth, tears against tears, and it makes Charles ache, _ache_ with this swirling miasma of wonder and desire.

"Let me take care of you," Charles murmurs, "I've always wanted to take care of you, Jakey, let me."

"You do," Jake says, "You do, you do, but please, let's stay like this. I don't want to let you go, I don't want us to let go."

"Never," Charles vows, and encourages Jake to set a fast pace, to grind their cocks together through two sets of clothes, and maybe it should feel juvenile, but when Jake comes he bites down, hard, high on Charles's neck, like he knows Charles needs it himself. Like he knows _Charles_.

Eventually Jake pulls slightly away, and looks at Charles's face, grinning. _Happy._ "We need a shower," he says.

"Only if you can hold me up in there," Charles jokes, huffing a laugh.

"Always," Jake says. "Always."


End file.
